


Averted Words

by vindali



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baby's first ao3 post :), First Kiss, Light Angst, M/M, Post HLV, british cussing??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:23:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4468619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vindali/pseuds/vindali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock adjusts to being back in London, but must deal with the aftermath of his abandoned confession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Apologies

Mycroft reclined slowly into the plush, old chair, straightening his suit as he did so. He didn’t even wear his mocking smirk as he always did. No teasing. He tended to himself with a blank expression, making sure his clothes were straight, and finally gazed up at Sherlock, hands folding in his lap. He knew it irked him to sit in that spot. 

“I’ve told you so many times. I can’t tell you anymore, it’s too late. I’ve lost my patience—and don’t say you’re not involved,” Mycroft snapped as Sherlock opened his mouth. Sherlock stood tall, although he blinked too much, as if he were a mess of nerves. His hair was windswept, and he wore the same clothes still: coat, scarf and all, as if he were stuck in them. His eyes were a storm of anger, of regret.  
“This isn’t a game anymore.”

“It’s always a game.” Sherlock spat, glaring down at him. Mycroft didn’t flinch.

“’The game is on.’ And what did you mean by that, the thousand times you’ve said it?” 

“Get out of the chair,” Sherlock demanded in a quiet voice. He’d been meaning to say it since Mycroft entered the flat. The only thing on his mind was to remove his brother from the chair. He’d ruin it all, the scent of the pillow when John used to sit there, propped up for his back, folded a little under the extra muscle. Sherlock was never one for sentiment, but with John, he slowly had broken every rule he had created for himself. Why else would he put the chair away? The thing was huge, a heavy, bulky, ugly thing he probably would have tossed hadn’t John nested in it for so long. It hurt to think that John lived elsewhere, doing perfectly fine without it.  
So, he brought it into his room. Sure, it was a problem. His room was the only clean place in comparison to the flat, so it fit all right. But maneuvering around it was an issue. He didn’t want anyone to sit in it, until John forgave him and came back and inhabited it. On sleepless nights he’d watch its silhouette in the dark.  
“Of course I forgive you.” As soon as the words were out of John’s mouth, Sherlock felt a small victory. But all was not mended. John had forgiven him, but everything they’d dealt with two years ago had started to come back. 

“John isn’t here to stop me this time,” Sherlock whispered. He was sober now, and angry, and much more potent. 

“You’re going to threaten the government now?”

“No, just my brother.”

“After you shot Magnussen point blank.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Sherlock tried to keep his expression composed, but the strike of his voice betrayed him.

“No,” Mycroft replied curtly. “Answer my question. What do you mean by ‘it’s always a game’?”

“For God’s sake, you know damn well what,” Sherlock brushed him off, collapsing in his chair. “The entire thing.”

“So, you are involved,” Mycroft inferred. “To what extent?”

“To my own,” Sherlock murmured, drawing his legs into the chair. He leaned on one arm, looking comfortable enough as he tucked his long limbs in. It was a coping mechanism, a fetal position Mycroft knew all too well.

“So. He doesn’t know.”

“Remind me why you’re here again? After you attempted to send me off to my death, I think I owe Moriarty more than you,” he hissed, finding an interesting patch of the wall to stare at. His interest in wallpaper was interrupted as he heard a knock and Mrs. Hudson peeked in.  
John followed behind her. Mycroft blinked, rising to greet him. 

Sherlock never greeted John with formalities. They were too close for that. He reached down for his violin. 

“So, Mycroft,” he began, taking the bow in hand. “Shall I show you the door, or will you see yourself out?”

“Neither,” Mycroft smiled, pacing the flat.

“Hello to you, too,” John said to the both of them, making his way to the chair. Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eye, sighing quietly in relief as he sank into its old cushions.

“Neither, as we never discussed the topic at hand,” Mycroft continued. “The reason why you’re here, Sherlock. The broadcast.”

“Jim Moriarty’s dead,” John put in, crossing his arms. 

“He… right in front of me,” Sherlock agreed, putting the violin down and cocking an air gun to his mouth.

“Sherlock Holmes faked his death successfully,” Mycroft shrugged. “Why couldn’t Jim do the same? He’s a more talented magician. Convinced all of London that you were a fake. There’s no knowing what he could do.”

“You’re government. So tell us, is he dead or not?” Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft wasn’t smiling. “You’ve got one day to recuperate. We start tomorrow morning.”

“Good, I need a case.”

Mycroft looked at John once before plucking his umbrella up and walking out the front door.

Mrs. Hudson was long gone, and the flat was silent. John sat, sprawled comfortably in his chair, sinking into the cushions. He massaged his temples before he reached back, adjusting the Union Jack pillow. Sherlock wished he could gaze upon him, could watch him in more than just his peripherals. He was lovely. He’d freshly shaved this morning before he’d met him on the tarmac. Like it’d make any difference had Sherlock left for good. John had sat down in his jacket, but began to pull that off, draping it over the arm of the chair. He wore a well-fitting button up, and he’d combed his hair again since this morning. Sherlock stood and drifted towards the fireplace.

“It’s bloody cold out,” John mentioned, watching him. Sherlock hummed in agreement, poking the sparks to life. He pulled back, satisfied, before turning to the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” That was John’s voice. It was gentle. Sherlock felt a pang in his chest.

“Tea,” he replied.

“Just a minute,” John pleaded. When Sherlock turned, John was readjusting himself in his chair, as if the doctor were about to hop out to stop him. “Tea. That’s… not your thing.”

“I can start,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Last time you made tea, you drugged me.”

“All right, no sodding tea,” Sherlock pouted, turning and sinking back into his chair.

“I’m just saying, it’s not like you,” John said. Sherlock glanced at him for a moment. John’s eyes were lit by firelight, and something about them burned. The words Sherlock wanted to say echoed in his chest, they were on the brink of his lips, threatening to drip from his tongue: the explanation for it all.  
“Sherlock--”

His name on John’s lips made his skin flush slightly. Stupid. He used to be so above all this, never tempted by pleasure or sentiment. Sherlock remembered the way he almost bloody said it on the tarmac, how John knew—yes, he must’ve known—the way his lips pursed, and he braced himself. But Sherlock could never say it like that, not at the very end, right in front of Mary and his brother.

“--is a girl’s name,” John continued, looking at the floor. He was rigid, his body language shouting “Prepared words”. Sherlock straightened, giving him his full attention.

“But that’s—“ John laughed nervously. “That’s not what you were going to say.”

“What else would I say?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t know,” John shrugged, looking into the fire. “When-when I came in,” he began again. “I heard what you said to Mycroft.”  
Sherlock swallowed hard. When he met John’s eyes, they were harsh. 

“You said you were going to your death.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, closing his eyes. He only felt relief. Perhaps John hadn’t heard the rest of it.

“Yes? And you… decided to keep that from me?” John’s fingers tapped nervously against his thigh. The tremor was coming back. 

“I’ve put you through enough, John. I thought it would be better if I just… disappeared,” Sherlock admitted. “So you wouldn’t have to worry. You have everything you’ve wanted.”

“I have a lying wife,” John retorted. “And a child on the way. Both are in danger, no matter the fact that you--“ John paused. Sherlock still saw Magnussen’s body crumple when he closed his eyes. “I know you’re both lying to me,” John whispered, staring at the fire. “I know she killed you. You flat lined. I was there, I didn’t leave your side.”

“Yes.”

“Do you even know?” John swallowed, locking eyes with him again. “Do you know how terrified I was? At Bart’s when you fell, and now when you got shot. It was happening again, and it was worse he second time because I knew you were… you were going to die, but I didn’t know…was it a prank this time?”

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock whispered.

“No more apologies,” John snapped. “I just want you to stop. I want you to be honest with me. You’re my best friend, Sherlock,” he sighed, the words coming weakly. “And I want you to tell me what you were going to say. Right now. We’re alone now.” 

Sherlock furrowed his brows, gazing curiously at him.

“We’re alone now?” He repeated.

“I mean, if that’s why,” John wondered. “Ah, you know, we had an audience, then, with Mary and… Mycroft.”

“You seem to know what it is.”

“I have an idea, yes.”

“What if it’s nothing?” Sherlock asked smartly, though his petrified expression didn’t match his words. John watched him patiently, waiting for him to continue.


	2. The Apparent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the truth comes out.

“Out with it, then, Sherlock. The faster, the better.”

“Not necessarily,” Sherlock complained. His heart pounded like a drum, constant and deafening in his ears. John gazed at him with a curious, patient look. He was so beautiful. No. Can’t start with that, too ordinary, and ordinary was not what John loved. What did John love, what did he want? Obviously women. So why even tell him?

It would ruin everything. Their chemistry as partners would suffer due to his selfish confession. He would tear right through their friendship, leaving elephants in the room for every bloody case they went on. He could have only told him at the end, when none of it mattered.

So how would he tell him? John, I know you like women, but I wanted to say I have a crush on you, but it won’t interfere with the work. No, terrible.

“Hello?” John snapped his fingers, waving at Sherlock.

“I’m thinking,” Sherlock retorted. His eyes were wide.

“I see that.” John replied. “Well, I suppose I’ll start, if you won’t.” 

Sherlock blinked, thoughts halted. John looked as if he weighed a ton. He glanced down at Sherlock’s coat, and the detective finally realized he had been sweating in the heated room. He stripped his coat, scarf, and gloves, and laid them on a table beside him, covering an array of mediocre compositions and crime scene notes. 

“I think I’m going to separate from Mary for a while,” John said slowly, eyes studying Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t react; instead, he responded the same, beginning to observe John. The doctor had a bit of powder under his eyes. It looked like he’d mixed Mary’s lighter concealer with a bit of bronzer. It worked well enough. Sherlock hadn’t noticed it until now. John had shaved, washed, combed, and dressed more neatly than usual. Stupid, Sherlock should’ve realized it before. John was overcompensating, trying to hide the fact that he slept restlessly by Mary’s side.  
“You haven’t been sleeping, John, you’re not thinking rationally.”

“Oh, aren’t I?” John laughed without humor, crossing his arms. “And how many times have you ran marathons of wakefulness? Forcing yourself to stay awake, trying to deduce crimes with a muddled brain.” He shook his head. “I’ve thought about this for a while, I’ll have you know.”

“Since you found out she was an assassin?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” John snapped, blood flushing his face. “Since you ruined my proposal.” 

The statement went over Sherlock's head. 

“You’re sure? You want to get a divorce now, John?” Sherlock questioned him. “That’s marvelous. You just got married. All that money you spent. I had to write a speech… you know how rubbish I am at them.”

“Shut up,” John hissed.

“And the baby. It’s a girl.”

“Yes.”

“Thought of a name yet?”

“Shut up, Sherlock!” John shouted, bristling. He stood up in his chair, towering over Sherlock, despite his small frame. Sherlock stayed rooted to his chair, blinking up at him. “Why?” He hissed, coming closer. “Why do you have to make everything a joke?” Before Sherlock knew it, John’s fist was crumpled in his collar. The detective sank back, but John only came closer. Sherlock had never seen the doctor like this; his eyes were burning. The hand that held him felt like iron, yet quivered slightly—would John explode? Give him another bloody nose?

“I’m sorry, John,” he started quickly. 

“For two years, I needed you,” John whispered, body still rigid, focused. His dark eyes were fixated on Sherlock’s, piercing into him. “I needed you. And Mary came, and it was hard at first, to move on. But you weren’t coming back, and she meant a lot to me, so I submitted. And I did fall in love with her.”

Sherlock was speechless, watching John is disbelief. Meeting his eyes was taxing, it was exhausting, yet the detective couldn’t help but feel the elated high only danger could give him. 

“You do understand, Sherlock,” John continued. “If you would’ve given me one word… it wouldn’t be like this. Mary and I.” His hand released Sherlock’s collar. John looked tired, his skin flushed with effort. “And I never said anything about divorce.”

“Just a separation?” Sherlock replied with a knowing look on his face. From countless cases, they both knew what a separation almost always led to.

“Anyway,” John continued, ignoring him. “You were telling me what you were going to say at the airport. And… I think I know.”

“Well, I’d love to hear your deduction,” Sherlock tried his best to purr, his heart beginning to beat rapidly again. John nodded, slowly sitting back into his chair.

“Well, if Mary and Mycroft weren’t there, you would have told me, correct?”

“More possibly,” Sherlock answered, leaning forward.

“But still a possible no. Why?”

“I didn’t want to ruin a relationship,” Sherlock whispered. “Now, enough twenty questions, John, let’s hear it.”

“Well, it’s clear to me that you, ah,” John paused, looking into the fire. Sherlock’s fingers tapped nervously against his knee. “That— you— read the thumb drive.”

“I’m sorry, the what?” Sherlock scoffed. “Seriously?”

“Well, of course,” John puffed. “What else could it be? There was something you had to tell me, but we had an audience, and there was no way to do it… no way to tell me who Mary really is. What she’s done.”

Sherlock’s heart sank. He rested his head in his hands, listening half-heartedly.

“Have you read it?” John asked.

“Of course I have,” Sherlock laughed impatiently. “And you haven’t?”

“No. I couldn’t bring myself to do it,” John replied quietly.

“Stupid. Ordinary minds, I can’t understand them,” Sherlock sighed, flipping his body sideways on the chair, legs dangling from the armrest.

“Because I have the decency to respect Mary’s wishes?” John spat.

“Because she shot me, John, and she’d shoot you, too, to protect herself. The reason she married you was to protect herself. Of course, I have several files saved of the drive, and it’s in your best interest, John, to read them, but this isn’t about the drive! Incredible, how you can miss the apparent.”

“Oh, please tell me, then!” John growled.

“I love you, John. Obviously,” he said without thinking. Sherlock registered what he’d said as soon as he’d opened his mouth, and stared into the fire. Don’t panic now, it’s already out. Explain? Don’t overcomplicate it. It was as simple as that. 

The silence was like a roar. John hadn’t said anything. Sherlock tried to glance casually over, but his eyes were full of fear, and he knew it. So were John’s: big, perfect, dark blue eyes, gazing at him in both confusion and clarity, if that were possible.

“Oh, my god,” John muttered, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “You’re serious.”

“The signs were there. They always were,” the detective said weakly.

“And—and you would’ve gone to your grave never letting me know,” John said.

“What’s the point?” Sherlock leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “You’re not gay, as you love to keep reminding me.” He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to look at John.

“Maybe I’d want to know, all the same.”

“For what reason?” Sherlock derided the idea, hands flicking in the air. They came to rest on his eyes, and he rubbed them tiredly. 

“Christ, Sherlock, I wish you would’ve told me.”

“Well, you didn’t give me much of a platform to,” he responded impatiently. “I asked you on a date, which you shot down. You always wanted to go out with your disposable girlfriends. You took offense anytime someone even questioned your sexuality, or mentioned the idea of us. Of course I stayed silent. I’m lucky you don’t mind. Someone else like you might be afraid of me, even try to hurt me. Yes, the world has changed, but not that much.”

“And what about you?” John retorted. “You mocked the idea of love! You used Janine, Irene, Molly. You took advantage of their sentiment for you.”

“That was before I knew!” Sherlock choked, a hand covering his eyes. He couldn’t understand what they felt, how it felt to be in love. Before John, he’d lived a calculated life, bitter in comparison to the fire he felt in his blood. His eyes stung, and he wiped at them angrily, turning to the chair. 

He heard John get up. He was going to leave, maybe come back after he’d slept it off, when Sherlock was in a better mood. They could put this day behind them. John could forget about it. They both could.

Sherlock tensed, feeling a hand on his shoulder. It was John’s: strong and warm, and surprisingly gentle. Sherlock looked curiously up at him, a hand still over his mouth. 

“Do you remember what I said?” John asked. Sherlock was silent. He didn’t want to speak in fear he’d choke again, that he wouldn’t stop the tears. “If I would’ve known… I wouldn’t be with her,” John whispered. “I would’ve waited. I’ve only ever wanted you.”

John’s hand gripped his, pulling it from Sherlock’s mouth, and lacing between his fingers. John leaned forward, and hesitantly kissed the corner of Sherlock’s lips, eyes lidded. Their eyes met, dangerously close. In fact, at this angle, there were rivets of John’s eyes Sherlock had never seen before. Little specks of blue, brown. Sherlock let out a small breath, terrified, and John took it, pressing firm lips against his. 


End file.
